


(you come and go like) hallucinations

by inralphlauren



Category: GOT7
Genre: Angst, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Prep School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8590339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inralphlauren/pseuds/inralphlauren
Summary: Jinyoung finds himself in a vicious cycle of wanting and never obtaining the outcomes he wishes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE take tags seriously!! i do not intend to trigger anyone with this piece of fictional writing. i also do no intent to portray members in a negative limelight. i love them all.
> 
> title from 2pm's hallucination. work inspired by vampire weekend's diplomat's son.

**Summer 1979**

_Mark,_

Jinyoung pauses, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. His pad of paper and pen are appearing distant now, but he swiftly pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose to focus his vision once more. He reads the few sentences he’s managed to scribble on his notepad to himself.

_I do hope you are faring well. The food here is, according to Angelika, going to get better. She's the cook here at Harrow and the only person who has approached me since last week. I miss Los Angeles—I miss you, but what I strangely the most miss are the stuffy, rainy days I spent with my mother in New York City._

He recalls those days after his mother took the position with the model agency that wanted her designs, remembers how his father did not even direct a single word to them when they left for the airport. Not that he was expecting anything from the patriarch of the Park family himself, he’d stop caring a long time ago. Stepping off that plane at John F. Kennedy airport was perhaps the most thrilling and terrifying thing he’d ever done. Still, life moved forward and he had found himself attending a private institution in Upper East Side, enrolling in rigorous music and art activities to occupy his time after school. He'd managed to successfully occupy all of his time with those duties, becoming top of his class by the age of thirteen. Jinyoung knew since the tender age of seven that he had to mature quicker than those around him, which is exactly why he ended up with Mark Tuan, the prodigious football player from Los Angeles.

_Even though I can’t remember much from those years in Los Angeles besides the ones I spent with you, I have small, some parts have stuck more than others. To be completely honest with you, I do dream of Los Angeles and you from time to time, but as of late, the memories of the States occupy my nightmares._

His five years with Mark were the best in his entire life. Mark had been the one who took him around the city, to museums, who listened to him unlike his father. In a sense, Mark had been the male figure Jinyoung had always expected his father to be, despite the mere one year age gap. Jinyoung is certain that he is deeply enamored by rap because of the times he went with Mark and his body guards to watch underground rap battles. Another one of his musical loves arose from record shopping across Lower Manhattan on a long weekend, one where he had witnessed the performance of saxophone player. He told his mother about the experience and since then, she had encouraged him taking up said instrument. Jinyoung's passion for the saxophone followed him even to London, the city solidifying his love.

_I'm sure you're tired of me spurring around a bunch bollocks. I’ll tell you about Harrow now. It's interesting, I think; even in the frivolous outskirts of London, Harrow School looms over the rolling hills of the countryside, the verdant abundance of pasture frolicking as a result of the fall winds. Although the pasture retains its beautiful colour, the sky is now a deeper shade of grey, the leaves on the trees are turning umber and other shades of orange. The smell of morning dew has filled my nostrils every day for the past two weeks we've been settling in and—_

A football comes tumbling up the hill, making contact with the trunk of the tree. Some leaves rustle, but for the most part, his haven is unharmed. The ball lands unceremoniously a couple of feet away from his sitting figure with a soft thud. From a distance, he can hear the familiar sound of—if Jinyoung guesses correctly—football cleats digging into the nearby pasture. When Jinyoung looks up, he's face-to-face with an older looking teenager. His facial features strike Jinyoung as unique. The other male has an oval-shaped face with a defined, sturdy jawline, and a soft chin with stubble marks. His piercing brown eyes are small and spaced evenly apart, sitting below trim eyebrows that seen to curve as a natural extension of his soft nose. The teenager keeps his mouth closed in a thin, straight line, and his hair—a darker shade of brown which could be lighter considering the gloomy weather—was neatly combed back and worn back to reveal a wide forehead. The jacket he wore over his broad shoulders had the crest of a football club he's sure Mark’s mentioned once, and the scarf around his neck is tied so that the ends perfectly fill the space left open by his coat. He walks straight, his face held forward in a steady gaze, and has an air of authority that is palpable. Jinyoung’s sure he is gaping.

The tall male ignores Jinyoung's existence, his icy eyes scanning the ground below the tree in search of what can be deduced as _his_  football. He spies the ball quickly, picking up his pace and jogging noiselessly to obtain it. Just as he is bending upwards to his original stance, the teenager's gaze shifts towards Jinyoung's and their eyes meet in an electrifying second before the stranger looks at the football now held by both of hands.

“Sorry about that,” the male smiles lopsidedly _at_  Jinyoung, looking back toward the direction he'd come from before starting off into a sprint.

That's the first time Jinyoung sees him.

 

* * *

 

**Winter 1979**

It's well into the first semester before Jinyoung actually gets to _speak_  to him. Jinyoung has become accustomed to the gray slacks, navy blazer, and white dress shirt with a black tie that make up Harrow School's uniform. He's going to be late to Philosophy, he knows it, but the thought doesn't prepare him for the collision that sends him crashing on the corridor floor. Jinyoung's books scatter on the tiled floor, his bag full of art supplies falling a bit further away from the pile. Cursing under his breathe, Jinyoung gets back up, dusting the hem of his slacks until they return to their normal color. He is about to give the person responsible for the incident a piece of his mind when he notices the culprit.

“Hey man, sorry about that,” the shorter male apologizes. Perhaps it had to do with the astonishment of their last encounter, but Jinyoung could definitely now pick up the American accent on the male's tongue. For a small second, Jinyoung says nothing and looks back at the cold gaze the teenager gives him. Finally, he mutters, “It's all right,” before kneeling down to pick up his textbooks. Jinyoung exercises often, so he’s fairly alarmed when he hears his kneecap buckling at the new pressure.

“That doesn't sound so good,” the male comments and Jinyoung realized he's _still_  there. “Do you need any help?”

“I'm quite all right, thank you very much,” Jinyoung replies a bit irritatingly. He doesn't know what it is about this male that gets him immediately angry. He's usually a pacifist—one of the most effective if Jinyoung may add, but something about the male's bravado makes his skin itch with a certain type of emotion that momentarily blinds his senses. Mr. Bravado seems to take the hint, letting his hands come up to his head in a gesture of defeat.

“ _Great_ ,” Mr. Bravado rolls his eyes, “a new fan.” Mr. Bravado flashes him a lopsided grin before checking his watch. His grin immediately falls.

“Well then. Don't think I don't find you interesting Mr.—”

Jinyoung frowns, eyes slit into a glare as Mr. Bravado urges him to state his name with a motion of his wrist.

“Jinyoung. Jinyoung Park,” the black-haired male finally announces, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose in a triumphant motion.

“—Park, but I must get going.” Mr. Bravado chuckles to himself, placing a hand on his hip. “I'm Jackson, Jackson Wang. I believe we met a couple of weeks ago.”

Jinyoung gulps audibly, attempting to release some present tension in his shoulders. “Yes we did. You almost ruined my letter.”

Jackson—because he can call him that now—lets out a short guffaw, but the surprisingly pleasant sound makes something inside of Jinyoung's stomach churn. “I get that a lot.” He's confident, of course, but Jinyoung isn't interested in losing any ground. “Invoice me the stationery if you must,” Jackson states and that's the last Jinyoung makes of it because the shorter figure is now moving away from him, towards the other end of the corridor.

Jinyoung let's out a small sigh because this isn't the first time he's dealt with men like _this_ , but he understands that it is one of the drawbacks of attending a school like Harrow. On the brink of guilt for almost forgetting it, Jinyoung locates his small utility bag containing his brushes and picks it up from the floor.

It's not until he's halfway to the dormitories in the afternoon that he registers the origin of Jackson's accent.

Jackson is American.

 

* * *

 

**Summer 1980**

Kunpimook is funny, Jinyoung thinks. In a place like Harrow, it is difficult to find individuals who place their genuineness above their ability to please others. Of course Kunpimook is goofy, but he doesn't do it to please others. After a complete year at Harrow, Jinyoung enters the cycle of his sixth form. Many new changes are brought about with the welcoming of a new form, even that of changing buildings for dormitory purposes. He spends his summer vacation in Edinburgh, his mother coaxing him into spending his break with her while she finishes an exposition for her upcoming winter catalogue. Naturally, Jinyoung gives in and spends lazy days sprawled out on the patio of their temporary home, his charcoal meeting his canvas in languid, soft strokes.

As a result, when he returns to the outskirts of London, the news of new roommates hits him hard; he loved being able to share things with Kunpimook, despite his constant paranoia over social interaction and having to pretend around them. It's not that Jinyoung is shy, but it takes far too much time for him to open up to individuals just so that they can simply go ahead and ruin this process of trust in a matter of seconds. Kunpimook, however, proved to be an exception just as Mark had proved to be a couple of years back.

“ _Oooh_ ,” Kunpimook starts, whistling to himself. “If you don't mind, can I keep this drawing?” Kunpimook is referring to the charcoal sketching Jinyoung made during his first year in New York City. He remembers the weather vividly that day, how it took him a complete twelve hours to get the jagged edges of the skyscrapers nearby to be just right.

“Sure,” Jinyoung agrees absentmindedly, pulling out his trusty lamp and placing it on his new nightstand.

“Thanks a bunch, Jinyoung!” They both laugh at their usual antics.

A few hours go by as Kunpimook helps him unpack, neatly placing his belongings in the correct places Jinyoung would want them to be. Still, Jinyoung starts to become a bit anxious, seeing as his new roommate was supposed to arrive two hours ago. He sighs vehemently, tossing a few blank pages into his new waste bin close by.

“I think I'm going to get going,” Kunpimook finally speaks up, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I know it's going to be a bit weird, but I'll always be close to you for the remainder of our time in this shit hole.” Jinyoung returns his smile and makes sure to see him out. “I appreciate it.”

When he closes the door behind him, he lets go of the air he didn't even know he'd been holding in his lungs.

A few minutes pass by, minutes that feel like an eternity, and Jinyoung _really_  considers just dropping the whole school charade and moving back with his mom, even if this means traveling the world and never settling down. He's too busy with his thoughts to look towards the direction of the door, the tall, lithe figure he'd come to talk to a few months back, now threatening to be something more than a familiar face amongst the boys at Harrow.

Jackson notices him first, flashing him that same toothy grin from before.

“Well, if it isn't Mr. Park himself. Guess we're going to be roomies for the next two years.”

Maybe, Jinyoung thinks, that's the exact moment his life goes to shit.

 

* * *

 

**Spring 1981**

“Are you fucking kidding me!” Jackson shouts at the television in their dorm. They're not supposed to have a god damned television, Jinyoung warned him repeatedly, but Jackson had assured him that he'd take complete blame if anyone found out.

Jackson is watching the European Cup final, screaming profanities at the small contraption. Real Madrid is down one goal against Liverpool with only five minutes left to go. Jinyoung doesn't see Madrid winning the title, considering the only goal of the match was scored precisely eighty-two minutes into the game. Since then, the players have tightened their defenses and are struggling to even counter attack due to exhaustion.

“I don't think Madrid can get back from this,” Jinyoung deadpans. He would never dare to admit so, but he's currently sketching the outlines of Jackson's back as he faces the television, away from Jinyoung. It's a good exercise, but he only has two hours to complete the task before Jackson is on his busy way once more.

“Shut up, Jinyoung. Fuck off.” Suddenly, there's a clear chance on Real's behalf, but the ball hits the top of the goal post before Jackson can even jump on his feet.

Jackson screams something in Chinese—because it turns out he’s Chinese American—at the television, his arms coming to rest against his chest once he’s finished releasing his anger.

Jackson's words still etch in the back of Jinyoung's mind a few minutes later, Jinyoung recalling just how much Mark himself loved football.

 

* * *

 

**Spring 1981**

It turns out that Jackson _is_  from America, Boston to be exact. His family is from Hong Kong, though, and is fairly new to the concept of wealth, but Jackson comments that he's lucky they've even made it so far. “Knowing my father,” he had said, “I'm surprised he didn't spend my tuition money at the local bar.” Luckily, Jackson's family didn't even have to fish out any money for their teenager to attend Harrow School. Jackson's on a football scholarship, his youth skills impressing scouts from all over Europe when the youngster auditioned for a possible, upcoming program that involved training male teenagers in Barcelona. _La Masi_ a, Jackson had said proudly the first time he mentioned the institution. Sadly, Jackson had proven to be a bit too old for the experimental age that the re-invented organization had wanted to work with. Nevertheless, they were enthused to see youngsters like himself playing at such a level. Jinyoung wanted to mention that perhaps Barcelona had pitied him, felt bad for rejecting him, but he didn't want Jackson to hate him more than he sensed the latter already did.

Jackson's not so bad, Jinyoung thinks, or maybe he's just becoming too soft. He brings Jinyoung food sometimes, when the black-haired male is too involved in his sketching to even take the world into consideration. Of course he's loud, rowdy, and touchy sometimes, but Jackson is the complete opposite of what Jinyoung expected him to be months ago.

Which is precisely why he begins to notice the way Jackson's gaze is distant, his movements robotic. Jinyoung returns to his memory of Jackson watching the Madrid and Liverpool game relaxingly. There was no tension in his shoulders, Jinyoung can recall because he _has_  a drawing of him that proves so. A few weeks after the game is when he begins to notice a dip in Jackson's mood. Jackson begins to smoke more, not that Jackson's never smoked, but the issue is pressing enough for Jinyoung to become concerned about the possible effects of these smoking habits on Jackson's football career.

“You should stop smoking,” Jinyoung comments when he notices Jackson by the window of their room, Jinyoung's fingers making sense of the knotted tie around his neck.

“Maybe you should stop being such a prying twat,” Jackson mumbles, his brows furrowing as his gaze focuses on something in the distance. Jinyoung sighs.

Jinyoung steps away from the mirror, looking himself once more before stepping away. “I'm just trying to help.” He predicts Jackson's words before they're even out of his mouth.

“I don't need anyone's help.”

Jinyoung decides to leave it at that, but something in his heart makes him look back at the direction of Jackson's small puffs a few steps away. Slowly, Jinyoung pries his gaze away from the American male and makes his way down the corridor, towards his jazz recital.

 

* * *

 

 **Summer** **1981**

Jinyoung is out of his mind, he's absolutely convinced.

“ _Maybe you like him that way_ ,” Mark's words echo in his mind. The black-haired male shakes the thought away before walking into the school dormitories.

“I _'m not gay_ ,” Jinyoung had responded, at least what his mind had screamed during the conversation. He hates Los Angeles for that, will always hate it. Mark knows him like the palm of his hand, always cataloguing the effects of everything on him.

He's positive he's not gay.

Except, Jackson is always warm. Well, only when Jackson touches his hair, lightly tossing it in all directions. Jackson is also warm when their fingers brush against each other in a desperate attempt by the shorter male to get Jinyoung to eat pea soup from the school's cafeteria. There's also the way their shoulders brush against each other during their mornings in the washrooms, the way they feel warm, too.

And okay, maybe it's some sickening, inexplicable attraction that is keeping him tied to Jackson, but surely that means nothing more than mere attraction, right?

Either way, it was too late to stop his legs from carrying him up the flight of stairs in search of what could possible be a wandering Jackson before the school year. They're not supposed to be here, not until two weeks, but Jinyoung has to see him especially after the black-haired male's trip to Los Angeles. He wants to resolve the tension between each other that was present before break, the mere sentiment propelling the muscles in his body. He's tired, tired of everything. Yet, Jackson is the key to the closure he seeks.

As Jinyoung gets closer, the sound of a familiar voice wafts through the air.

 _John Coltrane_ , he thinks immediately because that is _his_  vinyl and someone is playing his vinyl. Jinyoung is wearing a white Ralph Lauren button down with slim white chinos to cope with the heat, but his dorm is surprisingly at a stable temperature when he manages to get inside. There's no one in the main resting area, so Jinyoung peaks into the kitchen. There's no one there as well.

The only option remaining is the bathroom, but when Jinyoung approaches the half-open door, he stops right in front of the old, mahogany door. From inside, small splashing sounds are being made and Jinyoung's blue eyes catch sight of two beige penny loafers through the open slit of the door.

“Jackson?” he manages to stay without sounding too hesitant, surprised when he voice does not waver. The splashing from inside the bathroom subsides.

“Jinyoung,” Jackson coos, and Jinyoung can practically hear the man's smirk tugging at his lips. The hairs on Jinyoung's back shoot upwards, followed by chills traveling to all the bones in his body. Jinyoung steels himself, his hand slowly etching forward to push the door into the bathroom open. When he does, Jinyoung has to bite his lower lip from gaping.

Sprawled on the inside of the bathtub is a very naked Jackson, the transparent bubbles covering Jackson's body leaving very little room for imagination. It's not the first time Jinyoung has seen him semi naked, but the added effect of the water and soap give his whole upper body a certain glistening that can definitely compare to Jackson's sweat-covered body whenever he's played footy hours on end. The expanse of his upper body is covered with slight freckles that Jinyoung can only guess are also because of hours under the sun. Jackson's head is above the water, but barely. His icy brown eyes catch a glimpse of Jinyoung, and there's that infamous, lopsided grin Jinyoung has grown so accustomed to. In a split second, Jackson is grappling the sides of the tub and hoisting himself upright. Jinyoung swallows when he notices Jackson's lean biceps flex under the stress, his arms a physical testimony to Jackson's Adonis-like features.

Jinyoung plays it cool, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door frame.

“Do you mind telling me why in the world you're here?” Jinyoung is glaring at Jackson now, but the latter doesn't seem to return the sentiment.

“Wow, you would guess that being early to school would be something you'd be happy about, not something worth throwing me death looks.” Jackson chuckles, and Jinyoung's frown falls.

“It's just strange,” Jinyoung calls out. Jackson doesn't smile this time, letting out a vehement sigh before submerging his entire head below the water. He doesn't surface for two minutes, two minutes that make Jinyoung more anxious than the thought of being gay. He's about to phone the emergency line when Jackson comes back up, taking in a deep breathe after pulling an insane stunt like that.

“What the fuck was that?” Jinyoung states a bit more pointedly, and Jackson just shrugs. They sit and stand there in silence, Jinyoung shifting the weight of his body onto his left leg.

“Listen,” Jinyoung begins, but it so happens to be that Jackson speaks at the same time and excuses himself, giving the black-haired male the voice. “Maybe it was my imagination, but before summer break I noticed you were a bit distant. I don't know if it was anything I did, but if that was the case, then know I didn't mean to do it on purpose.” Shit, shit, shit. That sounds so egotistical, Jinyoung thinks a few seconds later because of course Jackson's world does not revolve around him.

Jackson doesn't call him out on it, something that is fairly out of his nature, but merely shakes his head. His voice is soft when he finally speaks again. “No, it wasn't you at all. Just, just—how about we eat some dinner? I'll tell you about it then.” Jinyoung nods and excuses himself to prepare some spaghetti. Once he exits the bathroom, the whole dorm feels lighter and colder and Jinyoung is definitely happy about that.

When he reaches the kitchen, he mentally kicks himself because there is nothing in the dorm to eat or cook and he knows that. After a few seconds of deliberation, the black-haired male opts for walking to the pizza parlor a couple of blocks from the dorms.

After a few minutes, Jinyoung walks into their dorm to find Jackson in a pair of khakis and a blue flannel, his hair still wet from his bath. “We didn't have anything in the fridge,” Jinyoung immediately begins, “so I thought pizza would be good.”

Jackson smiles at him—doesn't smirk—and it sends something into the pit of Jinyoung's stomach. “Perfect.”

They eat in silence until Jackson brings up football and then they're off. Jackson disses off a couple of EPL teams in favor of earning a chuckle from Jinyoung and he succeeds. It's not until his clock hits ten in the evening that Jinyoung notices the faint scratching of a record on the turntable they set up when they first moved in.

“Christ, are you listening to my vinyl?” Jackson bursts into laughter then, throwing his head back and choking on his mouthful of pizza. It takes the latter a few seconds to control himself, but Jinyoung is glowering in his direction. “I don't find that amusing, Jackson.”

The Chinese composes himself, rubbing his stomach absentmindedly. “We've been sitting here for two hours and you just noticed?” Jackson's question makes more sense, Jinyoung deduces and leaves it at that.

“How come you've never invited me to your jazz recitals?” Jackson asks, the same smile he always wears currently in play. And just like every other time, it doesn't reach his eyes.

Jinyoung shrugs, as if it were an automatic reaction. “I didn't think you'd be into listening a bunch of old guys playing instruments.”

“But you're not old,” Jackson points out.

“I guess I'm the only exception.”

“You're the only exception for a lot of things.”

The thing is, Jinyoung doesn't have enough time to process because suddenly Jackson is way too close, the unique scent of tomato sauce and men's cologne overwhelming his sense of smell. There's a ghost of a breath on his lips and Jinyoung wishes he wasn't frozen in place so that he'd be able to kiss Jackson, see if they could identify what was happening between them. Instead, the Chinese leans back and smiles ghostly at Jinyoung. Jinyoung is about to throw a tantrum, but then Jackson stands up and removes his priceless vinyl from the turntable. The brunette replaces the disk with another, the soothing sound of another male's vocals filling the air.

Jinyoung doesn't want to say anything, and he's positive he's a coward, Mark’s said so. The most horrendous part of the ordeal is that Mark's right because Jinyoung and Jackson don’t speak for the rest of the night.

In the morning, Jackson is gone.

 

* * *

 

**Winter 1981**

“Thanks again for agreeing to do this.” Jinyoung glances over the top of the canvas with a purse of his lips. “I'm sure it's probably the first time you do this, but you did show interest the other day on the process and whatnot—”

“Don't be an idiot,” Jackson says fondly, but that playful gleam in his eyes is still evident. “I told you already, I don't mind. Besides, you're right. I was the one who expressed interest, so why would I back down?”

“I guess you're right.” Jinyoung knows he's probably blushing like an idiot now, and he ducks his head back down. “It's interesting to see unoccupied during this time of the day,” he admits, applying one final messy stroke to the canvas before he deposits the brush onto his nearby nightstand he's moved. “And if it's not too much of an assumption on my behalf, I loved how you've decided to give up footy practice to help me out on this.”

“Excuse me?” Jackson teases.

“Ha, ha, ha. Don't play dumb with me, I know you skipped practice to be my lab rat.” Jackson scrunches his nose at Jinyoung's remark.

“I know what you meant. If you want another painting, please never use the term labrat to describe me ever again.”

Jinyoung's heartbeat skips at the word _another_. So he goes for it.

“I was thinking of drawing, not painting; you've got a great face for charcoal. And a great body, too, obviously—” Jinyoung's face immediately turns an even brighter shade of red. “From an artist's perspective, I mean. I mean, you _do_  have a great body, I just—”

Jackson is laughing, shit-eating grin in place like Jinyoung hasn't just made an idiot out of himself. Or maybe like he has, but it just doesn't matter. Jinyoung grins back awkwardly and tries to flush the memory to the back of his mind.

“You're seriously on-edge tonight,” Jackson points out. “Everything okay?” Jackson leans over the window frame of their dorm, grabbing the weed blunt he'd been smoking earlier. If anyone had to be on-edge, it should have been the Chinese but of course he was dealing with Jinyoung.

“Yeah. I—everything's fine.”

Jinyoung swallows hard, trying to formulate the correct order of the words that have caught in his throat, and he wishes absently that Jackson weren't high. His old jeans and faded _Deutscher Meister_  t-shirt are fine enough for painting—there are already spatters on both from old projects for Dr. Spielberg, in addition to a couple of new smudges from a couple of minutes ago—but not exactly what he'd consider ideal clothing for a romantic catharsis. That's right, Jinyoung had decided to confront Jackson about everything they had endured, all of the touching and the night with pizza. Jinyoung had been a coward for far too long, and it was their last year at Harrow School before they each took reins of their lives. He could change, but there's really no way to justify that unless Jinyoung came up with an excuse that he had to meet up with his mother in London. He considers that idea for a moment—anything that doesn't imply him making himself look like an even bigger asshole. But no, if he's going to do this he wants it to be in private; besides, the idea of his mother being in London seems too farfetched. So maybe, he thinks, it would be best to hold off altogether? Tomorrow would be all right, really, and—

He's stalling. He knows it. And if there's one thing that Jinyoung has always hated, it's how being a coward comes naturally to him, so he squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

“Actually, there's something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yeah?” Jackson hops down off the stool and strides over to the easel. “What's the matter?.” He pokes his head around to steal a glance, and he can't keep his face from looking perplexed. “Well, then.”

“What?” Jinyoung asks, immediately distracted and shifting nervously from his left to his right foot. “Is something the matter?”

Jackson raises an eyebrow. “That,” he says, jerking a thumb at the canvas, “doesn't look a thing like me.” Now that he's closer, Jinyoung can smell the marijuana coming off the later in clouds, if the concept is even possible.

“It's not supposed to, you fucker.” It's a little absurd, how relieved Jinyoung is; he hadn't quite realized until this very moment how worried he's been that Jackson wouldn't like his work. “This is just to get the basic shapes down; it won't start looking like you until later. I'm pretty sure you don't want to be sitting like that for hours on end.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Jackson doesn't seem to be paying terribly close attention, too busy staring critically at the blocks of color. “You're still planning to have me shirtless? That's why this bit is all sort of the same color, right?” he asks, gesturing. “So why is it that you had me keep it on?”

Similar to Pandora's box, it's an opening of sorts, but somehow his mind races. _Because I'm getting ready to tell you that I may or may not be infatuated with you, and under the circumstances, asking you to strip half-naked first seemed like a creepy way to start the evening_  doesn't seem like the best possible answer, he deduces when the thought arises. Instead, Jinyoung just shrugs uncomfortably.

“I know what color your chest is; I don't need to see it just to block it in.”

“You had me take my shoes off,” Jackson points out. _Shit, shit, shit_ , Jinyoung's subconscious races. “My feet are the same color as the rest of me, too.”

“That's different; it's an entirely different shape, you—”

“Nope, sorry,” Jackson interrupts easily, his mouth twitching into a mock pout. “No more of this blind faith in your abilities. I'm gonna need to see some proof you know what you're doing if you want me to show up as your model ever again.”

And okay, maybe Jackson's too far fucking gone, but he's still definitely one of the most attractive sights Jinyoung's ever seen regardless.

Jinyoung rolls his eyes and grabs his sketchbook, handing it over with a relieved grin. “You could have simply asked, you know.”

“I've asked before; you always brushed me off.” Jackson starts flipping through the pages, and Jinyoung shoves his hands in his pockets. Suddenly, Jinyoung realizes all of the times he's drawn the silhouette of Jackson's back are in that sketchbook and his blood runs cold. “You said you had something to talk to me about?”

“Hmm? Oh.” He's distracted again, watching Jackson's hands while his mind races at one hundred kilometers per hour. “I—yes. I did.”

“Okay, so.” Jackson glances up with his usual grin that makes Jinyoung's stomach flip. “Go on, stop being a suspenseful prat and tell me. Look at these, it's just—me. Oh.” He glances back down at the sketchbook, and when Jinyoung follows his gaze he sees that he's turned to the most recent pages. Jinyoung has spread out his work from his times in New York City, mindless scribbles of the Harrow landscape, but Jackson's curves are something he wishes the latter wouldn't be immediately drawn to. “Wow.” Jackson swallows visibly after a few seconds, his fingers trailing over a rough sketch of his profile. “These are—I mean, I always knew you were good, but these are fucking amazing. I look—” Jackson laughs, a little nervously. Christ be damned, J _ackson Wang_  is fucking nervous. “I don't really look like this.

“You don't spend as much time looking at you as I do,” Jinyoung says, and immediately wishes the Earth honored him with a swift, painless death. There's no going back, however, so he clears his throat and decides to use the opening that is given to him. “That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Sort of. I mean, not specifically, but—” He takes a deep breath and tries again. “You see, when you're drawing someone, when you're looking at someone so closely for so long you start to—well—you start to notice things that you might not do so on a regular basis.”

“Okay.” Jackson closes the book warily and sets it aside. “I'm assuming you've noticed something about me.”

“Yes, something along those lines. More so something about me, I believe—just.” Jinyoung clears his throat and tries to summon his courage. “Do you remember the first time we met? You probably won't, but I thought you were a complete arse who I would never remotely come to understand. I just, it's been interesting to come to know you and—”

“Spare me the sentimentalities, Park.”

“Right. Well, the thing is,” Jinyoung feels light-headed and shaky; he can barely speak, he's so nervous.

“You were right.”

“Was I? In what sense? I don't even recall ever talking about our first meeting.” Jackson's face is falling into neutral lines, closing off in a way that makes Jinyoung's nerves frantically signal an oncoming emotion.

“You were. It—well, there are things it's made me notice. Realize, I guess. About, um. Well, I had never realized how obsolete assumptions were until I met you, but now—I just really hate you. I can't ever figure you out, you're always being bloody obtuse and narrow-minded. I'm live in the same dorm as you, but you're just as cryptic as the bloody blueprints for a rocket ship.”

“Look, Jinyoung, it's okay.” Jackson glances at the canvas again and then quickly away. “I think I know what you're going on about. But you don't need to worry your pretty little head, all right? If you hate me, then so be it. We're almost done with the school year. It's January and soon it'll be April and then we're done, okay?”

“Oh.” As far as reactions go, Jinyoung is finding this one to be perplexing, at best. It _feels_ like rejection, though, and he does his best to steel himself against the sudden hollow feeling in his stomach. “Okay, that's—good, I guess.”

“Do you trust me, Jinyoung?”

“Of course,” he says immediately, without needing even a moment to consider, and he watches a grateful smile spread over Jackson's face. It's strange, how this has come about.

“Okay. Then trust me when I say that you don't have to worry about this.”

Except, that's not what Jinyoung wants at all. He wants to card his fingers into that gel-slicked hair and explore the expanse of Jackson's throat with his teeth.

“Right.” Jinyoung opens his mouth, closes it again. It hits him then. _Shit_ , his mind cries after realizing his words were completely taken out of context. He would never hate Jackson, ever. But he has to know, has to be sure; he has to hear the words, or he'll never really be able to move on. So Jinyoung assumes that his following words are due to an unforeseeable adrenaline rush. “That's not what I meant. I'm a bit scandalized that you would believe I hated you. I just wanted to know if you're interested, you ass.”

“What?” Jackson looks like he's been caught off-guard, and he blinks up at Jinyoung in confusion.

“Are you interested?” he repeats once more against all reason, a cautious spark of hope catching hold in Jinyoung's chest, and he dares to edge an inch closer. “Please tell more you're interested because I don't know how to control myself anymore.”

“Shit, I think I didn't quite place that in the correct context. Were you trying to lecture me?”

“I —”

The words won't come out, seeing as they are stuck behind his heart that's managed to climb its way into his throat. He's trying not to stare at Jackson's lips, but for some reason he has Mark's voice in his head talking about getting his point across, and before he can remind himself why it's a bad idea he's framing Jackson's face in his hands as he darts forward to steal a kiss.

Jackson's mouth is slack with surprise beneath his, but his lips are soft and warm, and the scent of his skin is making Jinyoung's head spin, so it's several long moments before he fully realizes what he's doing. Conscience grips him immediately, and he's about to pull away, to stammer out an apology and hope that his housemate will forgive him, when things abruptly change.

There's sudden pressure against his lips as Jackson begins to kiss him back, and Jinyoung can't even hope to think beyond how good it is. He's aware of a warm arm curling around his waist, of the shift and press of Jackson's lips against his, of a gentle wash of breath against his cheek. His entire body feels like it's humming, buzzing, trembling and vibrating with the sudden force of this, _yes, finally._  He's half-hard already, from nothing more than a single chaste kiss; Jinyoung thinks, distantly, that he should be embarrassed about that. He's not, though, and he hears himself make a small, eager sound as he moves in closer. His hips fit against Jackson's, and they both groan as the hand at his waist pulls him in, encouraging for a brief, wonderful moment. Jackson makes an attempt to evade the following stages of this— _whatever the fuck this i_ s but the black-haired male catches on. Jinyoung is quicker this time, taking hold of Jackson's shoulders before he can evade. There are so many things he wants to say, so many thoughts tangling together in his mind, but none of them quite manage to make their way into words. Truthfully, that's probably for the best, since at least half of what he's thinking is probably too much. So instead he focuses on the single, simple truth that runs through everything else he wants to say.

“I don't think I've ever felt this way about anyone before.”

There's something like recognition in Jackson's eyes at that, something like the same cautious hope that Jinyoung is feeling; like perhaps those meager words are, after all, enough to make him understand. Jinyoung moves slowly forward, his eyes still locked on Jackson's as he carefully lowers his head. If Jackson attempts to pull away again he won't stop him, but he hopes— _oh_ , Jinyoung hopes he won't. And when he doesn't, when Jinyoung feels his lips brush softly against his friend's, his eyes drift closed as pleasure and relief wash over him.

A few minutes later, they end up on Jackson's bed, the black-haired male making obscene noises for the Chinese above him to never stop.

And it happens to be that Jackson doesn't intend on doing so, either.

 

* * *

 

The black-haired male wakes up in the middle of the night to the quiet whistling of the nearby tree's branches. To add to the emptiness, Jinyoung wakes up alone with no sign of Jackson beside him. The bed is warm and there seem to be slight wrinkles in the dip created by Jackson's sleeping body. Sleepily, Jinyoung rubs his eyes and scans the room for any sign of the time.

Half past midnight, the clock on the nightstand reads. The lights in the rest of the apartment are off, but the moonlight outside of the dormitories is scintillating enough to illuminate the entire room. Carefully, Jinyoung swings his feet off the side of the bed, standing up gently in case he loses his balance. He makes it and looks around the room, searching for any trace of Jackson. He finds nothing particularly promising. Rather than give up, Jinyoung finds his discarded clothing on the bedroom floor and manages to get into his loafers in the darkest portion of the room. He's out of the dorm—past curfew—before he can even curse Jackson under his breath. Knowing the latter, there's only one place he'd be.

When he arrives at the site of the football field close to the Harrow lake, he's not surprised to see Jackson viciously running towards the goal post before shooting the football thunderously past the net. The Chinese is sweating profusely, despite the lower temperature of the night time.

“Jackson?” he calls out and the brunette squares his shoulders immediately, his whole body tensing. Jackson's reaction makes his body tense, too.

When the brunette spots the black-haired male, his eyes are cold and an unusual shade of midnight blue—not the familiar passionate brown ones Jinyoung’s grown accustomed to. The worst part of the situation is that his eyes look dead, an expression that unintentionally blocks out Jinyoung's memory of the tenderness in Jackson's eyes present only a few hours ago.

“What are you doing here?” As if to match his eye color, the tone is his voice is also hostile.

“You were missing, so I just figured that—”

“Well, don't,” Jackson snaps immediately. “We're nothing, all right?”

Jinyoung's support shatters, and he's suddenly lost. “I don't know what you did to me,” Jackson goes on, “but don't think I'm some kind of poof. It was prolly the weed that got to my head—that _you_  prolly encouraged me to consume.” Jinyoung can't believe what he's hearing.

He's never in his life been accused of sexually assaulting anyone, let alone by the person he'd been living with for nearly two years now.

“Fucking hell. Are you implying that I drugged you, asshole?” Jinyoung asks incredulously, taking a step forward in the brunette's direction. Jackson doesn't falter.

“Well, if the shoe fits.”

Jinyoung doesn't remember what happens after that, he just remembers the flash of red impairing his eyesight for a few seconds before his right hand's knuckles are colliding with a set jaw structure. Jinyoung's left arm takes a swing at the brunette once more, but the shorter of the two manages to grasp Jinyoung's wrists and pins them above his head, rendering the black-haired male useless.

“Let me go, you piece of shit!” Jinyoung yells at the top of his lungs. He's about to propel his leg up to kick the shorter male when Jackson beats him to it, the latter kneeing his stomach to the best of his abilities.

Jinyoung collapses on the floor, the wind knocked right out of him. He's gasping for air so he doesn't catch the first words of Jackson's speech. When he finally tunes into what the Chinese is stating, the black-haired male calls bullshit. “Do you really think an aspiring footballer, the son of a powerful diplomat can truly ever be gay?” Jackson scoffs, laughs in Jinyoung's face before kicking some of the dirt on the black-haired male's face. The action makes it a bit more difficult for Jinyoung to breathe. “Well, you're mistaken, Jinyoung. If anyone sleeps with you, it's because they pity you or are simply looking for someone to shag. Grow up, the world isn't made up of rainbows.”

Jinyoung finds the strength to stagger to his feet, dragging his shoes on the dirt. He attempts to swing another punch in Jackson's direction, but being winded definitely took its toll on the latter. Jinyoung falls to the floor once more, Jackson being the one to punch him this take. There's blood, there's definitely blood running down his temple and he just hopes he doesn't get a concussion making him pass out.

“You're pathetic,” Jackson states in a hushed voice before he's kicking at Jinyoung's ribs.

Despite the ringing in his ears, Jinyoung wonders, watching numbly the way Jackson keeps beating him, his own body bleeding profusely on the football field behind the Chinese's mud-covered boots, if Jackson is looking through him and wishing it didn't have to be this way.

His naivety has caused this, Jinyoung knows and maybe Jackson was right. Jinyoung has no right, no entitlement to self-worth if he can't even tell the true intentions of those around him.. The blows on the brunette's behalf didn't cease until the Jinyoung tastes iron liquid oozing from his mouth. Even then, his mind could no longer register his environment, vision blurred by a daunting cloud of white.

Perhaps, his current condition was for the best; after all, Jinyoung is drawing near his body's recuperative slumber when the darkness of an English taxi cab's rumbling windshield hides the face of the hidden individual behind the automobile. Perhaps, the sound of waves created by the small pier at the edge of the water have helped ease his mind.

Even so, Jinyoung's auditory sense has never betrayed him and he knows nothing can ever be the same once he heard the soft padding of Jackson's strides over the football field and onto the street, opening the door of the vehicle before slamming it shut after him.

Maybe witnessing the sight of the vehicle with diplomatic plates carrying Jackson away would have hurt less than the way he feels now.

Yet, Jinyoung wishes it could have been different between he and the diplomat's son.


End file.
